Page 25 of Broken

“Yes. But I can see them at home.”

I smirk at his logic. “Carlo?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why your parents brought you to me?”

“Because they say you’re the only one who’ll make me listen?—”

I never expected him to say that, and despite myself, I’m actually touched.

And, God help me, choked up—this cheeky little boy finds as much camaraderie in me as I do in him.

“Well, be that the case, you know why you have to atone, don’t you?”

“I guess.”

“That doesn’t sound very sure to me.”

“I didn’t mean to?—”

“Don’t lie in God’s house.” I purse my lips. “You know very well you meant to. Why would you do it if not?”

“I-I suppose.” His voice is small now.

“Are you sorry for what you did?”

“I’m sorry I wasted all that glue,” he grouses. “And I’m sorry I’m here.”

“Well, that’s a start,” I retort, amused again, and then, because I have others waiting outside, I give him his penance.

When he heaves a huge sigh, like I made him atone by walking the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, my smile widens.

And, mood buoyed, I see the next two people and manage to forget about the woman and Lorenzo who’s waiting outside.

Until, of course, he enters, stinking of garlic and cheap wine.

Suddenly, she’s at the forefront of my mind, a better subject to focus on than Paolo Lorenzo and the shadow of sin around him.

“I did it again, Father.”

And just like that, my mood sinks and Andrea Jura fades into the background.

Even as I cringe at his confession, I know that my time to act is approaching.

Lorenzo just tugged on a tripwire, and it doesn’t even register with him.

But he’ll learn soon enough.

CHAPTER 14

Andrea

I Follow Rivers - Lykke Li, The Magician

His church is smaller than I expected, quainter, and more comforting than the ones back home. There’s no sharp lighting here, just shadows and candlelight, some electric, some natural.

My eyes don’t hurt in the chapel, nor does my head ache. The scents are ones I’m familiar with, ones that represent my childhood if I’m honest. I used to sing in the choir, even though I hated singing in public—Mom always asked me to and teasingly said my voice buttered her up for when I brought home my ‘projects’ which almost always resulted in a visit from the police.

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